


Letter Lovers

by kankokujinpoi



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M, OCD Kyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-07-23 02:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kankokujinpoi/pseuds/kankokujinpoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle gets a new phone and begins playing a game with a random stranger. Although, Kyle has a theory that this stranger isn't really a stranger at all. Just me trying to get into Kyle's head. If you've ever seen You've Got Mail its kinda like that</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another FF.net dump.   
> Enjoy~

5 Months.

Exactly five months ago, I got my first nice phone. What do they call those? 3G? 4G? Well, my phone has a G, I'm just not sure what kind. Once I got my phone, I promised myself, (and Stan), that I would not turn into one of those nerdy kids that bury their nose in their phones the whole time they hang out with their friends.

Stan ever-so-nicely pointed out that I was already a nerd that kept his nose buried in books, so he mused that keeping up with the electronic nerd world would be too much for a book nerd like me, Ouch.

Stan says hurtful things sometimes and doesn't realize it. I can tell he doesn't think it hurts me because when I do look at him with watery eyes he usually just punches me and says, "stop crying, fag." Ouch. Again.

It all started when Stan and I were at a party drunk off our asses and Stan's football friends started making fun of him for being gay. With me. Now, don't tell Stan this, but somewhere deep deep down I wanted Stan to grab my hand like he used to when we were made fun of in the 4th grade and say "Fuck You." But I know that we were in a different world now.

That night at my house as we shared the same bed Stan asked me, well more like told me, "You aren't gay."

I kept quiet for a moment. That was the middle of our Sophomore year. Of course I didn't think I was gay. More importantly, at the time, I didn't want Stan thinking I was gay.

So, of course, I said, "No dude… that's just…gay!"

We both laughed a small laugh and fell into silence again.

I remember this was the first time I let myself imagine myself being gay. Since I really had no particular boy in mind (heh…) I thought about Stan and I. I thought about us really being in a relationship and the things we would do together. Now, you can consider me a 'late bloomer' or whatever but I never thought about the physical side of a relationship.

Once I began thinking like that I couldn't stop. I almost opened my mouth to correct Stan's statement. I thought about jumping right out of bed and looking Stan straight in the face and saying, You know what, maybe I am gay, And maybe you should love me either way because we are super best friends."

But before I worked up the nerve to say something I heard one word that I personally feel, no, know for a fact, ruined our relationship.

"Good." It wasn't a soft unsure tone. The tone was cold, completely out of a pit from hell. I know those are contradicting terms, but the hell I imagine is void of anything loving, including that warm feeling. Hell is cold for me, alright?

Stan never thought for a second, 'Hey, maybe my super best friend is gay.' Which completely threw me off. I'm a sensitive guy and I know it. Before I can reminisce any more about my sexually journey, there are a few interruptions that have come up.

Class is over, time to leave.

My phone needs tending too.

Five months is a long time for things to change.

I don't even know what we were learning, I don't even care. Once the bell rings I immediately reach for my phone.

Ah my phone. The reason for my constant dwelling inside my head.

I unlock my phone, half knowing and half hoping I would find that little alert box light up with my favorite four words.

"Your move with _CMFt_"

That last word might not be an actual word, but it has become a regular part of my minds vocabulary since four months ago. I knew there would be an alert; it's been all of my class period since I last got one. I just knew it.

Like I said, 4 months ago was when I started playing this game, the game that got me hooked on many things. Letters with people.

I had my phone for a month and I was keeping a steady promise to Stan and staying away from the apps.

That is, until Kenny got a hold of my phone and downloaded this game and began playing with people from who knows where. That night, my phone kept buzzing with alerts, so I was introduced into the amazing world of mobile to mobile gaming.

I quickly beat every person I would play. Until _CMFt. He was unlike any other player I've played against.

He would quickly play back and even respond to my messages. I always tried to come off as friendly, telling whoever I played with that the game was a close one, and that I was up for a rematch any time. Most of the time I never go a response. Not only would he respond to my messages, he would also kick my ass playing every single game.

Instead of just placing tiles with one letter in common, he would find words that shared 3, 4 letters at a time. Anyways, back to my phone.

I have an alert.

It's my move.

With any move I expect a message attached. I open the game.

'Moose.' He played moose against my word 'often.' That clever fuck.

And of course, my favorite part of the game.

My message.

"How was it?"

He's asking about my class. Being four years late and 100% positively gay, maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions when I think he is actually a he. But I am 98% certain that _CMFt is a boy.

More importantly, I am 130% certain I know who this boy is.

Craig Mother Fucking Tucker.


	2. Chapter 2

45 minutes.

I've been sitting in traffic for 45 minutes, waiting to get off the exit to where my apartment is. It's an exit down from campus, so it's a good distance away from the school's population.

That means I can come and go from the social world in peace. Well, I thought I was a good distance away from it…

45 minutes is a long time for someone to sit in a car. It's a long time for someone to do the same task of anything really. It's especially long when you're trying to keep something (or someone) from filling your brain. What's worse, it feels like decades when you can't even have the luxury of your phone.

Of course, my phone is the problem here though, isn't it? It's such a temptation to look at my phone. Not five minutes ago though did I play back to _CMFt and responded back to his message. I don't want to seem too eager to talk.

Although there have been times when I would just lock and unlock my phone, thinking the smallest sound or vibration could be him returning my messages, er I mean, taking his turn. I have to give credit to the game. Without the game, there would be no talking after all. A lot of the times he does respond quickly, but that's usually after 10, when I'm not the most responsive. I'm usually getting ready for bed, or being dragged around with Stan and Kenny.

I mean, hanging out with Stan and Kenny.

I don't mind hanging out with them, but I have to watch my back around Stan. If I look like I'm too into my phone, Stan will usually say something about it. Sometimes it's, "Who could you be texting?" other times it's a little more laced with emotion, "You're only two friends are here, you texting your mom?" Other times its quick and to the point, "Get off your phone."

Don't get me wrong, I love Stan. There are times when I've felt like maybe I love him a little too much, and I think he feels it too. Those days are long gone, now.

Maybe Stan and Kenny were my only two friends, and maybe I did rely on Stan too much. Maybe I was just too much of a bookworm, or maybe I was too afraid. Whatever it was, I feel like I can start over with _CMFt. Maybe it's the social world all together. No one knows who I am or what I'm like, so I can be more than just the friend who likes going to school and reading books, or who doesn't mind sitting in on a rainy day and watching all of the Harry Potter movies, or who—

Wow, shut up Kyle.

Kenny isn't as bad. When it's just him and I, he lets me play on my phone all I want. I think it's because he's used to people playing on their phones and him going without. I'm pretty sure he's gone through almost every phone carrier in town. He'll sign up for a free phone and ride out that carrier until they realize he hasn't been paying his bill for the past six months, and shut it off. Some phones he can still get wifi, so he can still kind of communicate with us. It's hard to tell what and when Kenny cares about things, so it's better not to put those emotions out on a limb to be made fun of even more. Plus, you never know where he is half the time. You just kind of have to wait for him to show up, don't ask where he's been, and enjoy the ride.

Let's just put it this way, Craig makes me feel like a person people actually want to be with.

God, that came out all wrong.

Craig asks about things in my life, even without really knowing who I am. He seems to genuinely care about my opinion on things and the cool little facts I tell him. He even throws in little facts himself that I never knew.

Oops, I said Craig didn't I?

Well, I can't help but think its Craig. There are a few reasons why I'm 130% positive it's him. Let's call it my Craig Tucker Theory.

Let's start from the beginning.

He doesn't respond with cutesy little girl endings, like "LOL," or smiley faces like , he just responds.

There are never any question marks at the end of his sentences, even when they are questions. "How was it." "Where did you learn that." It's hard to read them like that, so I still project the ?.

The first thing he ever wrote to me was so Craig-Tucker-like, he should have just signed his name right there.

"Nice Try."

I didn't even have the chance to send my message, it was just waiting for me when he knew that there was no way I would have any chance to even catch up to his points.

Okay, so these may not scream Craig Tucker to anyone else, and how would I know if Craig has remained the same Stoic Bastard he was for our entire childhood?

Oh yea, there are other things.

He mentions his pet guinea pig a lot.

He talks about his friends, which happen to be:

"A Fat Crybaby"

"An overachieving gentleman,"

"A nervous Wreck."

Clyde Donnovan.

Token Black.

Tweek Tweak.

And he talks about the weather. This is assuming that he still lives around South Park. If he mentions how its snowing outside where he lives, I can't help but look out the nearest window. Even when we may be sitting in someone's basement with no windows, I physically pick my ass up and find the closest one, just to make sure its snowing where I am, too.

It means he's close.

You'd think I could reason with myself on this. "Kyle, don't be an idiot, 10% of the world is covered in snow or ice, and more than half of the population has seen snow in their lives, meaning he is in the same fifty percentile you are, meaning he definitely doesn't live in India, or Africa, or south America…"

So my chances are good, right?

There are other things that I've learned about him since messaging him. He likes the arts. All of them: Music, theatre, film, canvas, paint, anything really. He's been busted for graffiti (I can't help myself from thinking every good piece of graffiti art I see around town is his), he takes classes at some university and also holds a steady job.

The first time I knew Craig was not just being polite and writing me back was three months back. I was watching the NBA finals with Stan and his friends, not sure where Kenny was, but either way it was boring. I made sure to leave my phone in the front flap of my messenger bag (NOT a purse) until at least half time. That's when Stan and some of the guys went on a beer run, leaving me by myself with a bunch of jocks that were just like the kids that made fun of me in high school that dreadful night.

Anyways, I unlocked my phone to see my turn was up.

My heart jumped, I had two messages.

Not one, but two.

The first was some nonsense we were talking about earlier, and judging by the time, was paired with the turn he took. But the second message…

The second message was recent, within the half hour of my looking. It was the first actual non-game related topic we had.

"Stuck watching the NBA finals with the guys, feel free to shed some intelligence on the subject."

I couldn't tell you who won, or who was even playing. The rest of the night I was too busy messaging and occasionally taking my turn. Okay, so maybe we didn't need the game, but that's my safety net, and I'm not quite ready to walk without it yet.

At this time I wasn't sure who this _CMFt was, but I was determined to find out who this guy was. I googled his screen name, then a second time on Bing, then even a third on facebook. The Internet is way too large and I knew way too little about this mystery guy.

Two things I deduced from this.

He lived in the same time zone as me.

He liked hearing from me, which I deduced further. Probably was and still is a bad thing but either way, I still deduced that…

He liked me.

Wow, thinking about that still makes my head spin. Before I knew it, I was in my apartment, setting my keys down on my kitchen table. It was like I snapped back to reality. I looked around, I noticed my door was already closed, locks already in place. My shoes were off even, placed neatly next to the front door. My messenger bag was even hanging on its hook, books I needed for school work already in my hands.

When had I done all those things? When had I even stopped driving? I guess things that should be important in your life, like being a careful and aware driver, are thrown out the window when it comes to lo—

Infatuation. I'm not even going to skim the subject on that word I just almost used.

There are a few more steps to take before admitting to myself some feelings I've been having. I mean, I was in the closet for 18 years before admitting that to myself, so this can wait.

I reached for my phone, another message.

It was his response my questioning if he was in a boring class like I was.

"Nah. Had class earlier, now it's off the serve the hungry people. If you have a Howie's Diner where you live I suggest you stay far far away."

Howie's Diner.

Before I knew it I was on my way out the door to my car. Didn't know if I locked my door, didn't care.

There was a Howie's near campus.

I was about to prove my Craig Tucker Theory.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to post some finished stories in hopes it will motivate me to write new ones...

7 Minutes.

I've been sitting in my car in Howie's Diner parking lot for 7 minutes. Partly because I'm trying to gather up the nerve to walk inside, and partly to form a blueprint in my head and observe where the waitress zones are. It's actually been about 7 minutes 56 seconds.

The whole time I've been sitting out here I can't seem to find Craig. I parked where I can definitely get a good look inside the restaurant, but anyone looking out won't really question why I could be sitting in my car. I guess I don't really know what I'm looking for. It's been a good three years since I've seen Craig and another two since I can remember being close enough to talk to him.

The image my mind projects isn't what I would exactly call prince charming. Not that I am just going to openly admit, "I like ugly dudes," I'm just saying I'm trying to keep a realistic view on this. From what I can remember (and with the help of a yearbook from senior year) Craig was a taller guy, skinny. I can't really remember seeing him at parties that Stan and I would go to, but Clyde and Token would be there, not to mention he was never on a sports team, so that's another factor I'm trying to add into this. If he is and was a drinker, then he might have gained weight and be one of those kids you see after high school and go "woah, pounds…" It's amazing how weight can make someone completely different.

The only thing I can really go off of his height and hair color. It's too early in his life for him to start shrinking, and I think we're a little too old to color our hair. Maybe we're too young? Not sure.

I gave myself ten minutes in my car to work up some nerves and take observations. It's past the 11-minute mark. I decided just to take a deep breath and go. Still no Craig found on my radar, but I could always have the wrong Howie's.

I pull on a blue hoodie. I recently read an article about colors. Blue is the calmest colors and projects peace. Wearing blue is supposed to make communication easy for someone. If I do end up meeting face to face with Craig, I'm going to need all of the help I can get. I guess it's kind of like you are trying to embody the color blue. Ever since then, I've used blue paper for speeches and presentations that I have to memorize. I haven't gotten back the grade yet, but I'll let you know how the results go.

Not to mention Craig's favorite hat, his Chullo, was blue.

I was pleased to read that green is a lot like blue. Harmony, balance, and it promotes healthy relationships…

We're perfect for each other.

Okay Kyle, stop babbling to yourself and walk in there!

The maximum capacity sign reads 345. This small building definitely does not seem like it can hold 345 at a time, but I'm thinking they must count 20 people as workers, so that makes me feel a little better.

It's a quaint looking inside Howie's. Its' designed to look like an old diner our parents were probably taken to when they were little. Bright reds and blues, neon yellow signs, pictures of old diner's they are trying to emulate plaster the walls.

"Hi welcome to Howie's Diner! How many?"

I faced the hostess smiling at me. She seemed genuinely happy to be at work. "Um, just one." I feel a little sad saying this, but I try to focus on my mission at task.

"Alright, right this way, sir! A booth okay?" She leads me towards the corner of the building. From my calculations I took outside, she's going to lead me to a girl with her hair braided's table.

"Krista will be your waitress this evening, enjoy!"

I smiled as she handed me my menu. To tell you the truth I have never been to Howie's, so I'm not really sure what there is to eat.

It's not that I'm a picky eater, it's just that I'm a careful eater. I've never been the greatest cook in the world, but I have my mother to blame. She likes to visit and stock my fridge with frozen meals of hers. She supplies me by the week load, marking the day they're going to be eating the same dish on the outside of each container. She takes things overboard a lot.

Guess I know who I take after.

I hate admitting that I find any other food unhealthy, it makes me sound snotty. It's just that I know how my mother prepares the food, so there's no threat of meat sitting out too long, or anything being dropped on the floor, there are just a lot of things that could happen to my food during the whole preparation process that I don't get to see. Either way, I don't each much of anything else besides maybe fries. And a hamburger. Plain.

Which is exactly what I ordered from Krista. (Who, by the way, was the one wearing her hair in a braid.)

Safe Safe Safe.

I asked for a bottle of water, but Krista informed me they only had glasses, so I changed my order to a coke. Even though their pop machines most likely have mold growing on the inside of the nozzles, because I can't imagine anyone working right now having the type of work ethic to think about things like that. The only reason why I even thought about that was an article I read in my human health class two years ago. Kenny was working at a McDonald's at the time and I asked him to take apart the nozzles and collect a mold sample in a small cup for me.

I puked when he brought it to my apartment that night.

But if the water will be filtering through the same nozzles, I might as well have something more flavorful to drink.

3 minutes into waiting for my food I pulled out my phone. I had forgotten I didn't reply to Craig's message. I quickly took my turn, (I made the word AXEL off of his l in BROTHEL) I always feel a small victory when I get rid of letters like X, Y, and Z. Even V is a hard one.

"Howie's huh? What do they have good to eat there?"

Kyle, you should have thought about that question before you ordered! But if Craig does work here, you don't want your order to look strangely familiar two minutes after him sending the message.

This is why I take time to plan things out. Me acting on impulse does not ever turn out well for me.

Wait, wasn't this trip an impulsive act?!

Breathe, Kyle. The chances of Craig working here are slim to none. There had to be at least another 10 restaurants. It's a mid western states chain. (meaning he really was close, but how close?) And even if he did work at this particular restaurant, chances of you seeing him are slim to none. He mentioned serving people, but you haven't seen him and you haven't seen him within the first 30 minutes you've been here, so he probably works in the back. If he's in the back now, he's gotta stay in the back, right?

"Kyle Broflosky, how nice to see you."


	4. Chapter 4

"…two minutes…"

What?

"I said you've been staring at me for the past two minutes."

I must have said that "What" out loud. I couldn't believe it. Craig Tucker was actually standing in front of me. There he was. My projected image of him was off. Although he was wearing one of those cook aprons, I could still tell he has not gained any weight. Well, any unhealthy weight. It's natural for some one to gain weight in such a transitional stage in their life. Although many studies show that the so called "freshman 15" is true, it's not accurate. Some claimed 9, others claimed 5, but judging from my own studies, the average weight gain is 12. Closer to 15 than other studies, but I think environmental factors played into this. Most of their studies were probably based in some coastal state, where they have better things to do than just sit around and watch snow.

Craig looks to have gained a measly 5 pounds, if that.

And let's not get into my weight gain, alright?

"Broflosky, you check out or something."

He definitely did not gain any weight that wasn't put to good use. That's a double negative, meaning he looks good.

"How much weight have you gained since high school?"

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The first thing I've said to this guy in 5 years is a question about his weight. I should have prepared flashcards with helpful conversation starters.

"I'd say like 6 pounds."

Craig's facial expression hasn't changed since 4th grade, but there was a certain twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Health physicians say that it's healthy that a person undergoes some personality changes, especially during their teenage years and into their young adult life, but not Craig Tucker. He's had himself figured out since 4th grade. I wonder if that is some sort of warning sign of a cannibal murderer or something.

"I would've guessed 5."

Smooth, Kyle.

I smiled and he looked at me with all serious that is Craig Tucker. I was secretly hoping maybe Craig had changed. I was hoping for a kinder, gentler Tucker. When we message he seems so interested in things we talk about, its hard for me to imagine this brick is the one playing me back, let alone winning every game we play.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Craig isn't the guys that's been messaging and playing the game with me.

"That one pound went to my brain, its hidden."

I couldn't believe he didn't deck me, or question such a stupid question. But then I realized his questions aren't really questions at all, so either way, I shouldn't have expected a question from him anyways.

What?

I watched as Craig fiddled with the bow on his apron. I could tell he was thinking about something. He was blinking his eyes in a rhythmic pattern, which can be considered a tick of some sort. When one is so deep in their head, its hard to control the surface of one, surface being your body. I had no idea what was running through Craig's head. Usually when I don't know the answer to something I don't stop until I find out so…

"What are you thinking?"

I almost completely forgot that we were sitting in a restaurant. Well, I was sitting; Craig was standing, still holding my plate of food.

Which was probably cold by now anyways.

I watched as Craig looked around the diner. His hair was shaggy, but not long enough for gravity to weight it down. It did look like he had grown, but I can't remember what height he was in high school. I wanna say 6, but since I'm sitting I'll give him the angles advantage and settle with 5'11.

Craig scooted my water down with the plate and set it in front of me.

"I was originally thinking what kind of lame would come to this diner and order a plain hamburger with plain fries and ask for a plain bottle of water." Craig's lips were a perfect size. They were thin, but a nice shade. Just enough for someone to notice the small upturn on the left side of his mouth. Some observant like me, I guess.

"But then when I found out who it was I wasn't surprised at all. I thought to myself, 'wow, big surprise'."

"Really?"

"I know it's been a few years, Broflosky, but you didn't think I could forget such a 'gem' like you, did you. I mean who could forget the guy who ended up being the only senior to get accepted into his top three picks of college, along with having a scholarship ridden boyfriend."

I should have anticipated such negativity directed towards me. He was never a fan of Stan, not sure what he thought of Kenny, but he hated Cartman.

At least we have that in common.

Call it loyalty to Stan, or call it straight attitude, but I did not like the tone of his voice. He was getting that, 'Now we both know I'm smarter than you, so just let me talk and be happy you get to listen.'

I get that from Ike a lot.

I decided I could knock him down a few levels.

"Number one, Stan was not, and is not my boyfriend." Why did I add that 'is not'?

Insert Craig's blank stare here.

"Number two, if you want to be technical, I got accepted into my top 5."

Leave Craig's blank stare here.

"and number three, there is nothing wrong with eating plain food!"

Insert my huff and puff face here. I should have thought out my numbers a little better. I would have probably put number one last, Stan always seems to be a kicker for Craig.

Oh, and you can still leave Craig's blank stare.

"There's something wrong with being a picky eater."

"No there isn't."

I feel like I'm in fourth grade again.

"Yea, there is. Being a picky eater, an adult picky eater, is bad. They are now diagnosing adults that are extreme picky eaters as having eating disorders. Think about it, if you don't eat a variety of food, how are you supposed to get a variety of nutrients? Don't say vitamins, you know as well as I do eating food rather than taking a pill packed with chemicals is ten times better for you."

I was speechless. Craig picked up my top bun to my burger and gave it a wif. Although his facial expression didn't necessarily read disgust, I knew it was something of the sort. Then I watched him pull out a piece of paper and a pen from his apron pocket.

"If you want to cure this eating disorder of yours come to our apartment tomorrow night, I'm cooking."

I took a quick glance at the paper and looked up to find nothing but my plain plate in front of me.

As I drove home that night I came up with two things:

I might have an eating disorder,

I might have a dinner date with Craig Tucker.


	5. Chapter 5

21 minutes.

Craig lives 21 minutes away from me. That's about 13 miles if you include the stops and inevitable traffic. Once I got home I map quested his house and google mapped it as well. I knew it was going to be an apartment, he told me, but somehow when I saw the image of the three story building I could tell it was a building Craig would live in.

It wasn't in some type of college dorm or apartment complex. It stood alone, mixed in with other building structures. The building was a dark red brick, with strong looking pillars with balconies on every floor. Next to him was another three story building, judging by the signs the top held a 24 hour gym, below it a nursery (most likely owned by the gym) and on the bottom floor a bagel shop (also most likely owned by the gym). I've never been to the area, but I had a good idea where I was going before I printed out the directions.

I also took the time to read _CMFt's message when I got home.

"Nothing, your best bet is to get a milkshake."

It was a good thing I got home late. It coordinated with my schedule so I didn't have to message Craig as much when I got home.

Which sounds conflicting doesn't it? But when you think about it, I'm a pretty obvious person, not to mention an overthinker, so after seeing Craig and confirming my Craig Tucker theory, I can't just go back to talking to CMFt like nothing happened.

When I prove a theory, there is no usual aftermath. That's the end of the problem, you've proved it, what else is there to do? But this theory was a little less by the book. Now that I feel certain I've proved my theory, what do I do now?

One of three things, really:

I say nothing about it, and just be happy I was right.

Tell Craig when I see him today that I've been the one playing letters with people with him all this time and hope he still plays with me, more importantly, talk to me.

Wait. Soak in the real life Craig Tucker and see if that's a friendship I even want to go beyond a 4G universe.

Of course, when I think about it, and think about his rude comment to me last night about his perception of my life, what makes me think I want to see him ever again?

Well that's because his tone wasn't rude. His upper lip didn't curl in the slightest, he didn't cross his arms as he said it, he didn't even lift his middle finger! Reflecting back now, Craig was never rude. He was never mean like Stan and Cartman had portrayed him to be all those years. Not saying he was happy, but he was just in between.

Which brings me back to the question of why would I ever want to see him again. It must be because I know somewhere deep down inside that boy must be the one I message on a daily basis. In all of his messages I imagine this full-of-life kid, someone charming and quirky. Not just someone living a life…

But then again, a study I read claims that 90% of people think they correctly interpret the tone of an E-mail, which I think is safe to use this statistic across the board of any non-face-to-face message besides a phone call. Out of that 90%, only 50% really interpret the message with its correct meaning and tone. So that means I could be reading his messages all wrong.

I take pride in being a perceptive person. I know for a fact I am smarter than more than 50% of the population. I am not quick to judge, so I think I am the right amount of conservative, yet open-minded type of person, even through the internet.

But this is Craig Tucker we're talking about. So why am I here?

Standing.

In front of his apartment?

Well, I assume it's his apartment. I was worried about the intercom system when I arrived. Most apartments have an intercom that will let the individual apartment renter know when there is a visitor just for them. This is because the front door is usually locked, for safety. But if safety was their concern, wouldn't they have that covered with the doors to the apartment? If safety was their concern wouldn't they be worried about the people that live in the apartment trying to rob or burglarize another fellow apartment dweller? In that case, each door to each room should have some sort of identification device that will only open for the person with said identification device.

Oh that's right, keys.

I think I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling, really. I'm nervous. The top five words that are associated with the word nervousness are anxiety, weak, guilt, hesitation, and giddiness. Nervousness word number four: hesitiation.

I'd say I'm the better half of them by the time I let myself through the glass door. (Their building looks to have been too old for an intercom system, either that or they don't care.)

There was no front desk, or even a check in. The first floor looked lobby-esque, but no one was there to greet me, it looked more…homey. I saw the flight of stairs and went up them find hopefully a nice room with a nice kitchen and a nice boy…

"Kyle!? That you, bro?"

Instead I find Clyde Donnovan.

"Hey Clyde, it's been a while, how are you?" Clyde has always reminded me of Stan and/or Stan's friends. (nervousness word number three: guilt) I've never really seen him around Stan's parties he drags me to or really around Stan since high school, but something about his absent-minded sports-loving demeanor has me instantly worried.

"Oh you know, just living life! Okay, I'm trying get on the Olympic team! But first I have to pass college." Pass college… I'm sure Clyde will do great things in life.

The two of us are just standing at the top of the stairs. Behind him I see a door that's slightly cracked, from it, if I could see smells, I'm sure this is the most attractive smell I would have ever seen in my life.

"Clyde, let him in, food is ready." I hear from the door.

Before I use the polite, 'I'm sure we can catch up after dinner' line where I quickly leave before Clyde can ask me what I've been up to, Clyde has me by the hand and is dragging me towards the door.

"You picked a good night to come, man. Craig's pasta is the best thing to eat!"

It was a normal layout. Kitchen first, then to the other side, living area. The TV was on the 6o'clock news, and their little kitchen island was filled with big dishes. I would go into detail about décor, but that's gonna have to wait, the smell is clouding my thoughts.

"Pasta, huh?" I smile and say almost to myself.

"Pasta. Glad you could make it, Broflosky." Craig walked past me, closing the door and gesturing me inside. The table seated four, two already had glasses and it seems the glass Craig shoved in my hand as he walked passed would soon join the two.

I swiveled my ice cubes around my empty glass.

"You want juice or milk?" Clyde asked, holding the fridge door open.

Either would be fine, but since I already have ice in my cup, and I'm not a huge ice person with either beverage, I am stuck between choosing the lesser of two evils.

"Sit down Clyde, I got him a bottle water. Come sit, dude." Craig's voice was soft, but still strong. You could tell there was little to no effort in his perfect speaking voice. What once was nasally is now a deeper tone, a little more relaxed sounding. It was nice. (Nervousness word number two: Weak)

I took a seat next to Craig and across from Clyde. The two looked at me.

"What?" Nervousness word number one: anxiety.

"Well, go on, get your food so I-I mean we can get ours!" Clyde pushed the plate in my hands and hurried me up from my seat.

"I Uh…" I walked over to the kitchen island with the food. A large bowl of noodles sat with a smaller bowl of sauce on the side. Grilled vegetables sat next to a big salad bowl with two different dressing bottles. A plate full of garlic bread was wrapped in a cloth and still steaming.

I felt uncomfortable knowing Clyde and Craig were watching me pick and put my meal together.

I heard a sigh come from the table. "Come on Clyde."

Soon the other two joined and I felt less awkward. Mostly thanks to Clyde and his messy way of plating food. Craig, I noticed had a very counter-clockwise way of plating. Nervousness word number five: giddiness.

I noticed there must have been two different type of noodles in the pasta, one being a lot smaller than the typical spaghetti noodle. Before I could ask about the two types Craig spoke up.

"One is angel hair, I'm sure you've eaten spaghetti before, so I'm not going into detail about the dish. The other is spaghetti squash. It's a vegetable, so a little healthier and really soaks in the taste of the sauce."

I nodded as I tasted the noodles. Of course they were going to be good. I was a little apprehensive, but I felt a little warm and cozy, knowing that this meal may or may not have been prepared with me in mind.

"The sauce is homemade, Token and Tweek grow vegetables that I use on the roof."

I had to admit, I was impressed.

"Now, Broflosky, doesn't this look a little bit more appetizing than what you ordered yesterday? Not to mention a lot healthier. All the food groups are represented, besides fruit I supposed, but just wait until dessert."

"Craig's cooking nights are the best Kyle, you've gotta come for Token's though too! That is one competition I stay out of, but if I was a good cook, I would have the best dish for sure. Then you could come over every night and vote!" Clyde was already up and getting seconds.

"All four of you live here?" I asked, feeling comfortable enough to gather some information.

Craig nodded his head. (By the way, his hat is on, probably a replacement of the one from middle school) "Clyde and I live on this floor, Token and Tweek on the second. They like to call us the messier of the four. That's why we get the lower floor."

The rest of the dinner and conversation went smoothly. Before dessert I learned that Clyde was going to the community school next to the university for sports management, and was the best on their wrestling team. He has been training for a spot on the Olympic team since he quit football and took up wrestling.

During the clean up of dishes I talked about myself. Something I am not really used too. Not a lot of people ask me about my likes or hobbies. Clyde did all of the interrogating, but I could tell Craig was listening at least. Interested, it's a little too soon to peg Craig's interested face, either that or I have not come across it yet.

I figured dessert was Craig Tucker time.

"So Craig, what do you go to school for?" I tried not to sound as interested as I was, but I couldn't help it. We each had a homemade fruit and yogurt parfait in front of us, and a small glass of wine. I felt sophisticated. Well Clyde had beer, but supposedly he needs the calories.

"Who told you I went to school?" Craig's version of a smile crept on his lips.

Crap. Maybe I just assumed that he has said something? I know CMFt_ takes classes. Later tonight I'm going to make a list of facts I've learned through real-body Craig and cyber Craig.

"I just assumed since you were so quick to tell me about my eating habits."

"This great mind can't must got to good use huh?"

How cute, we're flirting.

"Craig's a DAD!" Clyde says from the sink while he's rinsing out his dishes.

"WHAT!?" I almost choked. There were no signs of a child, and if there was a child here, where is it now?

"Director in Architectural Design, damn Broflosky, you have high standards for me huh? You think I'd just let my kid starve while we had this nice dinner?"

Then I heard it. The most heavenly noise I have ever came across on this earth. It was better than the opening Star Wars theme song, better than the sizzling sound of two biochemical's mixing just right, better than Cartman crying.

Craig laughed.

It was a quick start and stop of his breath. But it was more than just a scoff. His mouth was open and I heard the soft tone of his voice lose control in a moment of happiness.

Nervousness words number two and five.

"Well I gotta go pick up Tweek from work." Craig pushed himself from under the table and walked towards the sink. "It's been nice Broflosky, hopefully you weren't too afraid to try something new."

"Thanks for inviting me over, I really, well I really enjoyed it!"

"Well just don't tell Marsh where you've been, wouldn't want him knowing my address for one thing." Craig shrugged his shoulders, remaining-tone and took the plates from my hands.

"Yeah, what's Stan been up to? Haven't seen him in a while!" Clyde asked as he plopped on their couch, flipping through the channels.

"I was watching that" Craig threw a dry towel at Clyde, "and you have to finish these, Tweek will be off soon."

Brief curiosity flitted through me about Craig and Tweek. But that can wait until I get home to investigate.

"I don't really see Stan much anymore." I felt oddly okay saying that.

"I like you better already. I'll see you around though." Craig's wrist lifted in what was a small wave as he disappeared into a hallway.

"You could always help me do these dishes!" Clyde held a dripping plate up for me.

"No thanks, I should get going. I'll see you later though Clyde, nice talking to you."

"See ya Kyle! I'll see you soon, bro!"

I kept replaying the nights events in my head the ride home. It wasn't until I made it to my apartment did I realize I left with no number and no set time on when I would 'see Craig around.'

As I used my FaceDiary app I saw I had hopefully found my in.

"Clyde Donnovan wants to be friends."

I smiled and set my phone down. Then it hit me.

CMFt_ has not messaged me once tonight.

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?


	6. Chapter 6

4 knocks.

4 knocks every 15 seconds. That means that every minute there has been 16 knocks. Kenny McCormick has been outside of my apartment for at least 5 minutes. 16 knocks every minute for 5 minutes equal 80 knocks.

And that's just how many I've heard. I'm sure my neighbors have heard at least another 80.

I'm a semi-heavy sleeper. Which is something I certainly see as a good thing. A study I read conducted research on sleepers. More than half of those diagnosed as 'light sleepers' admitted to smoking and drinking on a more than regular basis. Heavy sleepers were more apt to be physically active, too.

The down side is waking up at a certain time. Thankfully for me, a semi-heavy sleeper, I was able to train my body to wake up and lose the groggy feeling before my 27 day mark of sleeping in. Once college hit and I no longer needed to wake up before 8 everyday I soon realized I could easily sleep through the first 4 alarm clock waves. I caught this day 5 and by day 8 I was up and wide awake at 7:45 sharp.

My body, however, is still not used to hearing Kenny knock 160 times on my door at 4 in the morning.

"Kenny." I said as I let him in the door. Well, to be technical, I really only opened the door. The actual physical act of inviting someone in was skipped. Basically, Kenny pushed his way in.

"Kyle, did I wake you from your beauty sleep?" Kenny smiled through his hood. Of course his hood was up, the average morning temperature here is 43.8 F in May, and its been a cold year so far. Judging by how rosy Kenny's cheeks are and I'm sure it was at least ten degrees less. If I could just touch him…

"The bank sign I passed by said it was 32 degrees, Gus, lay off the weird touches. I'd take a happy touch though." Kenny slipped through before I could feel his skin with the back of my hand. He's really the only steady 'subject' I have. Not to mention friend.

"You know how I feel about happy touches, Kenny." I'm just not a very comfortable person with touches of any type. I probe, not touch. Touching and probing are different. Touching is for feeling. People touch each other to feel something. I'd go to say feel both physically and emotionally. To probe is to physically explore something with ones hands. You're not in it for the feeling… just the results.

"Yeah, well anyway, Gus, guess where I just came from." Kenny slid off his jacket and threw it on my table. Gaunt would be the best word to describe him. Stan and I always knew Kenny walked the fine line of poverty when he was a kid, but ever since he's been on 'his own' as he likes to call it, I'd say he's at the bottom of the barrel. However, every word has its good side and bad side. Luckily for Kenny, he walked both sides of Gaunt. He was emaciated and haggard, but Kenny was also angular and lean.

"I wish you'd stop calling me Gus." I started the pot of coffee as I saw Kenny crank up my heat.

"You're just mad that I think you look like Gustav Morstad." Before you ask, he's an amateur model that was recently signed to an agency. Kenny was once approached by one of those model agencies that try to sign stupid suckers they find walking in the mall for their modeling classes. 'You've got potential!' they'll say, or 'I thought you were already one of our models!' Once they found out Kenny had no money to give them for his head shots, they gave him the boot.

That was probably the most upset I've ever seen Kenny. He knew he had the potential. Ever since then Kenny has kept up consistently with the amateur male model world. These are the things that make me question the sexual orientation of Kenny McCormick.

I wish I could walk both sides of a definition like Kenny does. Kenny had almost cemented the word 'gay' for Stan and I when we were little. I remember Kenny showed up at Stan's house our first sleep-over of our 9th grade year well after midnight, explaining to us all the things he had done for the booze we were waiting on. He convinced Scott Tennorman's older brother to buy us alcohol. In return, Kenny gave him a blow job.

The details he explained were horrifying at the time. Cartman was relentless and Stan played it cool, but I was plain horrified. I was afraid we were about to lose Kenny to the metrosexual world we all experienced in fourth grade. That was the only side of 'gay' I had seen.

Now, much older and much more mature, Kenny has composed himself as almost a pansexual. He was neither secretive nor overt with his relationships. He addressed each relationship, boy or girl, with genuine compassion. He was never ashamed of any guy or girl he was with.

Let's look over the fact he may be juggle up to 3 at a time.

"Gus, you best stop giving me those scientific eyes of yours. Did you hear me?" Kenny pulled out the coffee cups and started pouring two cups. His eyes were bloodshot, which could mean a plethora of things. He blames glaucoma, I asked him where he learned that from, he told me from his medical terminology class. I haven't bothered to tell him another sign of glaucoma is fluid caught in ones eyes, not to mention impaired vision.

Either he is lying about glaucoma, or lying about his 20/20 vision he likes to brag about.

Kenny never wants me to ask where he's been. I'm suspicious.

Kenny and I exchanged glances. We've never had a 'heart to heart' or even an argument, which makes me question Kenny capability to retain a relationship, let alone so many at once.

"Where did you just come from?" I humored him.

"Why, the Tucker residence."


	7. Chapter 7

26.

I read in an article it takes approximately 26 muscles to smile. In a second article I read it claimed to only take 17. With how wide Kenny's smile spread across his face, I'm willing to bet he was using all 36 muscles in his mouth.

Have you ever been confronted with an awkward conversation (like this one) and felt your face freeze? It's almost like your face sets, like when you drop an antacid in a water glass. The tablet sets at the bottom but lets out all the little fizzy bubbles. You get that fizzy bubble feeling on your skin and you can't help but know your body is reacting to said conversation, as much as you try to act like its not, the chemicals are reacting.

"Tucker? Craig Tucker?" I say as I stir in my already stirred creamer and sugar. Playing dumb is usually the worst plan of deviation one can chose, but I am somewhat surprised Kenny still hangs out with Craig.

"What other Tucker do we know?" Kenny pours his second cup of coffee. He takes it black, no cream, no sugar. I've seen him drink hot water straight just to keep him warm. Kenny smiles say many things. This smile just so happens to say 'cut the bullshit, Kyle.'

"What did he have to say?" I asked, honestly curious, "and since when do you hang out with Craig and those guys?"

Kenny snorts. That's one of the few ticks I've picked up about Kenny. He snorts when he wants to make people think he's being snarky, or sly. What Kenny is really doing is buying himself time to think.

"I've always hung out with Craig, you just never realized it." Kenny still keeps his smile, but he tenses his jaw. Kenny has been tensing his jaw muscle visibly since we were in 3rd grade. Not many people see this, thanks to his hood and large scarves he wears when its cold, but whenever we're inside, or his hood is off, Kenny will tense his jaw. At first I tried to follow a pattern of his jaw. Maybe we were talking about a certain subject, or something particular about him. There is no real rhyme or reason, though. The older I got the more I read into it. Emotional anxieties as well as withdrawals are the most common causes of a person consistently tensing their jaw. My guess is Kenny experiences both.

"Well, what did he say?" I asked, noticing how dirty my ceiling fan is. Anything really, to keep my mind off of how red my face was probably getting. The best way to get rid of a flushed face is to relax and accept the sweep of flush. But for me, the more I think about it, the more I think about what is really going on in my body. My biggest fear is that my blushing will cause rosacea or blepharitis, so for now I'll think about my dirty ceiling fan.

"Why are you turning red, Gus?" Kenny asks, running his hands through his rough blonde hair. I can feel my hands involuntarily running across the smooth skin on my cheeks.

I've made sure to stay blemish free. If there is a pimple, I will pop it. There is no reason for things like that to be building under my skin. Ew.

"Just tell me what he said."

"He said he had a lovely dinner with you."

"Really?" Good thing I can blame my voice cracking on the early morning hour. I'd hate for Kenny to think I was really that happy to hear Craig enjoyed his dinner.

"No, come on now, you think Craig would express anything besides apathy?" I taught Kenny the word Apathy. I've heard him pull it out and use it at parties, trying to sound more intelligent than he really is.

Kenny still wore a smile on his face, so it was hard for me to tell if he was joking or not. I asked him once why he smiles so much. He said he wanted to be one of those books people buy that look good sitting on their coffee table. Kenny once told me he looks at everyone like a book, literally. He told me that was his first and only proverb his parents taught him. Every person is like a book. I tried explaining to him that's not how the proverb goes, that its 'don't judge a book by its cover,' he just shrugged. He explained that coffee table books usually look good enough on the outside, that most people just leaf through its contents and still find it appealing.

He told me I'm the type of book that you know just by looking at the cover you know what's going to happen in the end, but the story of how you get there is worth the read.

"What kind of book would you describe Craig as?"

Kenny's smile faded, and was replaced with one of those popeye frowns. Everything Kenny does, he does 100%.

"I'd say Craig is one of those hugely thick books. The paperback ones that crazy Kevin Stoley nerds carry around for weeks at a time to read. They have to take the time to get into that boring little world the book creates in order to really enjoy the story. You can't half ass reading those kind of books." Kenny spoke more into his coffee cup than to me. The only time I see Kenny's shy side is when he speaks from his heart or mind. Most other times it's his stomach, or dick.

"I think you nailed it on the head. Craig is his own little world, huh?"

"You haven't seen nothing yet, Gus."

Kenny helped me with what little dishes we dirtied and left my place around 8:30. We danced around a few more questions, neither of us wanting to say what we really felt, but by the end of our waltz it was almost time for me to get ready for the day.

We gave each other a small shoulder hug and smile. Kenny and I handle our relationship tenderly, which is why I feel we both are worried about another mutual friend in our midst. Stan has been a constant. Neither one of us have to really stray from our personalities we held when we were growing up: Kenny the poor wild kid and me the quiet book worm. People say that stereotypes like those promote bad relationships, but really, Kenny and I know we both aren't just those type of people.

The brief topic of Craig made us both feel uncomfortable, yet excited. There are some personality types that just take a little more work to reach that comfort zone. Kenny is Blood type O and I'm Type A. Think about it.

Before Kenny slipped out he sweetly smiled another wide smile, "I invited Craig to your birthday dinner, I figured you wouldn't mind."

The perfect amount of time to plan a wedding is in 6-9 months. Planning for a baby, ideally, a year in advance. The perfect amount of sleep, 7.5 hours. Perfect number of times to chew your food, 35-40.

There is no perfect amount of time to prepare for this dinner. There is no perfect amount of time to prepare myself to talk to Craig again. There is no perfect amount of time to prepare myself for Stan knowing I hang out with Craig, no matter how often or how recent.

Just then, a message on my phone popped up.

CMFt_ sent you a message:

'Morning. Class today?

For a brief moment I used at least 17 muscles to smile at the message.

I quickly used another 7 to frown at the next text message I received.

"Why the Fuck would you invite Craig Tucker to your birthday dinner?"

When Stan capitalizes the F in Fuck I know he's mad.

The average population of Colorado should be waking up now and I already want to crawl back into bed.


	8. Chapter 8

54 percent.

54 percent of Americans over the age of 18 drink coffee daily. Of those 54, 34% stop at "premium stores' to get their coffee fix. Unlike Craig's perception of me, I like to mix up my coffee palate and alternate between home brewed and commercial.

Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays are my Premium Coffee days. I don't feel like I really need to explain. Over half of the population around the world has a negative perception of Monday. With all that negativity, it's hard to stay positive. As for me, I lean towards the more realistic view, which just so happens to be hating Mondays.

It's a new week for school, work, projects, anything. If you like to plan ahead, like 63% of the American population, then you will feel a slight drop in your stomach when thinking about Monday. I get that sinking feeling in my stomach a lot. At first, I was afraid it was gastroptosis, but once I went to my doctor and asked about it, he gave me a dry look and told me "I was fine". I then rushed home and checked studied the symptoms for gastroptsis and ended up waking up the next day with a stomach ache.

What really happens is that I get so nervous I lose control of my stomach muscles, or any muscles that I usually clench and then the dropping sensation happens. It's like when you hold your breath and finally exhale and all the oxygen races to your brain and other limbs you were suffocating.

"Good morning Kyle! It's a Saturday? What's the special occasion? Why do you look so stiff?"

I realize I am holding my breath and trying to count the seconds it takes for my brain to trigger the feed me response. I'm not really a breath holder. I think I think too much about my breathing that it causes my body to get a little shy. I can't really explain how it happens, but being too aware of an issue like that is just as dangerous as not caring.

"Hey Kevin, I just needed a pick-me-up." Kevin Stoley works at Tweak Bros. which is my Premium Coffee of choice. I like to support small businesses and their sizes are plain small medium or large. I like plain.

Don't tell Craig I just admitted that.

Instead of sitting down at my normal table near the window I take one of the middle seats. Saturday morning is a lot busier than my normal mornings at Tweak Bros. Taking the middle seat is really the worst. Instead of just 3 open angles, usually 2, there are all four. That means that anyone can pass by at any time from any angle. Think about when you walk past someone and you get a whiff of his or her scent. That's where our canine instincts come in. Some people just don't smell right. They don't smell fresh, and it's not like I want to piss on their leg so they smell like me, but I definitely don't care to smell anyone that I don't have to smell.

I wonder what Craig smells like.

Out of the five senses I'd say smell is definitely the weakest for me. When I wake up in the morning I walk towards my bathroom and run my hand against my wall. I have textured pictures hung on my wall. I have rough, soft, bumpy, smooth, and even that slick feeling. I've been looking for a scratchy feeling, but it's hard to find a scratchy feeling picture. After I wash my face I face my eye chart and make sure my eyes are aging evenly. My father's eyes are completely uneven. His left is 50/20 while his right is 95/20. He assures me that this has nothing to do with his health and really has no relation to the rest of his body but I have my doubts. Let's not get into my night routine with my hearing and taste tests..

73% of men wear some sort of fragrance. Craig never came off as a fragrance-wearing guy in high school, but since our little talk about his dislike for my plain meal, I'm thinking he has spiced up his life a little more. I should've taken the time to parse the smells of his apartment, but I was a little too focused on the optics of his face. I mean his place.

I'm way too observant to really thinking about smells. I notice the appearance of things way too much to worry about the smell of something. When I really want to smell something I have to close my eyes and basically kill off another sense. I should really grab some different aromas and strengthen my nose, but there's been a lot on my mind.

What better way to start fragrance training than in a coffee shop? You can hardly go wrong, right? Coffee has such a delicate smell, and since a coffee shop is basically the epicenter of coffee beans to turn to grounds, it only makes sense that the best, freshest, smelling coffee is going to be in a coffee shop. Unless there are nasty people with no respect for their bodies or surrounding people's aroma sensors.

I'm trying to close my eyes and just smell. It's a little scary not really knowing what I am going to smell. Smell is so close to taste one very sour person can kill this experiment for me.

It's also hard because I keep rubbing my thumb across the smooth surface of my phone, anticipating a vibration alert.

The steadier my breathing gets the stronger the coffee smell gets. It almost smells like coffee and grass together, which is really weird. Kenny Stan Cartman and I once made a gingerbread house and set it outside to cool. We were too impatient and the box said wait at least 20 minutes for it to cool. After about 5 minutes we brought it back in, bit into it, and tasted wet snow and grass. Kenny's dad was using a weed whacker to clear the driveway from the snow and there were little bits of grass and mud flying with the snow, mixing to make a nice Kale color. I think it was the touch of mud really.

"Take your fucking coffee cup man!" My eyes jolted open as I heard and felt the slamming of a cup on my small round table. I came face to face with Tweek Tweak.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry Kyle, I was just a little anxious for you to taste it that's all." Tweek pulls a napkin out of his apron pocket and reaches past me to dab the small circle of coffee that escaped from the top of my cup. He moves his arm higher to the rim of the coffee lid and let's the coffee spread on the napkin.

That's when I smell it. The grass coffee mixture. It's right in front of my nose.

I would tell you I'm not an impulsive person, but I've been surprising myself lately. However I did read in an article that the more social you are the livelier your demeanor becomes. Maybe my body is just trying to catch up, like a sputtering car up a hill. Going from first gear, say, hanging out with one person, to fourth gear, seeing Craig and Clyde, preparing for this dinner Monday, it can really do some damage.

Either way, my impulses land me grabbing his arm smelling Tweek's extensor carpi radialis. I've always thought that muscle was the best arm muscle. Good sign of a strong wrist, a writer maybe? I close my eyes again to make sure I've found the source of the mixture. It's funny how scents stick to a person. I've done minimal research on this, but my theory is that the more exposure to certain elements, the more the scent has to submit into your skin.

"The hell!? Are you trying to eat me?" Tweek's voice raises an octave, but nothing like his shrieking when he was younger. He pulls his arm away from me and rubs his muscle I just brought my nose to. This must be one of Tweek's regular shifts since I never see him one Mondays, Wednesdays, or Fridays.

All I know about Tweek is that he is Craig's best friend.

And he smells really good.

"You smell really good."

A part of my thinks Tweek is going to rip out his hair, but he's hesitating. I can tell from looking at him that he has calmed his nerves from when he was younger.

"Thanks. Sorry I just freaked out on you." Tweek brings his arm closer to my again. "You're the customer, so uh, I guess smell away."

Tweek smiles shyly. Thinking about it now, Craig and Tweek balance each other out really well. Craig stays solid while Tweek just rolls with the emotions he feels.

"I don't wear anything, I just kind of smell like this I guess." Tweek scoots the chair across from my out and opens my coffee lid for me, pulling a stirrer out of his apron and setting it in my cup.

You can tell when there is an intelligent person in your midst. Maybe that sounds mean or shallow, judging people by intelligence, but I can just tell Tweek is smart. He's very alert to the person. He isn't really fidgeting, no signs of insecurities. He comes off as shy and cautious, but who said being cautious is a bad thing?

"Well you smell really nice, Tweek." I smile as he stirs the coffee and lets the stirrer round my cup counter-clockwise, which is a really odd way to stir something. "It's a mixture of coffee beans and something earthy."

"Yeah, I grow a lot of sage and basil, but lately I've been pulling weeds all day. There's the grassy scent." Tweek brings his arm to his own nose and I can see the tip of his nose working.

"Oh that's right, Craig told me you and Token have a garden on your roof." I half expected him to be surprised I brought up Craig, since I'm sure he knows or thinks I am so close with Stan.

Instead he just smiles and pulls out his phone. I can still see his slight twitch in his eyes. Every few seconds his nose crinkles and his eyes squint almost like it's his cheek and brow bones that act as eyelids.

He thumbs through a few pictures then presents to me his phone. "This is what it looked like when me and Token really had time to get it going."

Every shade of green you could imagine. Mixed with browns and even a few blues. "Token has been working late and I've had more projects for school, so leaving Craig and Clyde to maintain this baby is a little despondent."

I'm actually impressed at how calm Tweek is and how nervous I feel. Children that are classified as anxious or nervous have a 50/50 chance of turning into an even more nervous adult. Tweek should consider himself lucky.

Tweek closes out of his pictures and I catch a glimpse of his background.

Him Craig and Kenny all sitting with an extremely starry background.

"How did you get those stars to show up so well in that picture?"

"Oh, they aren't real stars," Tweek opens his pictures again, "the guys rented one of those blow up planetarium things for my birthday this year. It was awesome. We had a sleepover." Tweek scrolled through some pictures for me.

In every one Craig and Tweek looked like they were a little closer than the other guys.

"You guys look cute together." I say, trying to mask my jealousy. Once I say it, though, I can tell the sting was still there.

Tweek blinks his eyes a few more times before answering. "Me and C-Craig?"

That's the first time Tweek has stuttered. Stuttering is a sign that your body is feeling slightly threatened. Unless Tweek is diagnosed with a stutter which he could, but I'm willing to bet it's the first. And I don't gamble.

"Yeah, I mean…" I stir my cup now, watching the steam spread out from the center of the cups. "I didn't mean like, you were together or anything." We are both too smart to know that as much as I try to cover up what I just said, I keep digging a hole full of bitch.

"We're not together." Tweek says and I immediately think he's mad. I offended him and now he hates me, is going to tell Craig when he gets home, and now Craig is not going to show up t my birthday dinner. Great.

"Kevin is getting swamped, but uh, I'll see you Monday?" Tweek sets the receipt down and walks quickly to the counter where there really are a lot of people.

Monday? Monday is my birthday dinner… and Tweek said he would see me Monday. Does that mean he is coming?

I flip over the receipt and it shows a zero balance. The only thing written on the paper is what I assume is Tweak's handwriting, 'Happy Early Birthday!'

Thinking of this Monday feels like my stomach has dropped to my knees.

Woah. It's been a while.


	9. Chapter 9

76 percent.

I've done my research and I have given myself a 76% chance of Craig and those guys showing up late to my dinner. The other 24% is the chance of them not even showing up.

Which will make three young adults look rather stupid at a table set up for eight. Although here we are, three young adults sitting at a table set for eight, stupid appearance in tact. This is what reminds me of how certain friendships of mine used to be. Kenny is sitting at the farthest corner of the table, talking to a girl he "knows, but can't seem to remember her name," and Stan is sitting to my left, head buried in his own phone.

Through my years of school I've found that there are many different factors that can affect one's punctuality: the destination, the company, the activity, distance, time, etc.

Most of my studies are conducted through my classes, watching kids who come in on time, late, and some that even show up earlier than me. I try to show up no earlier than ten minutes, and no later than five.

I'm going to give myself the benefit of the doubt here and hope that Craig will find a birthday dinner a little more interesting and exciting than class, and according to my studies, hopefully he will show up if anything, ten minutes late.

Hopefully he shows up at all.

Looking down at my clothes, then to Kenny and Stan's I have this overwhelming feeling that I am somewhat overdressed. Over 90% of young adults plan in some way what their outfit for an exciting night out is going to be. I've found that I am usually a pants-first person. I have a specific pair of pants that I want to wear, and then I build my outfit around that.

Kenny picks his outfits according to pants, too. He hasn't specifically told me that himself, but I think he secretly has a thing for feet. I've seen him face a girl, glance down to her shoes, then make his judgment: give the girls a toothy, cute smile, or, a coy little grin. Either means he's getting something in some way. I'm not really trying to take my study that far into which smile evokes which sexual favor.

6:57pm.

It's a good time. We might have shown up a little closer to the ten til rather than the five til.

Okay, so we've been sitting here for at least seventeen minutes. Most people's anticipation kicks in, and I mean the actual adrenaline rush, no more than an hour before said event. I've tried to time my adrenaline, and even maybe control it, but I'm no body aficionado. It must be my mother's Hypothalamus mixed with my father's prefrontal cortex. The two combined has definitely caused my adrenaline to start flowing a lot quicker than any other normal birthday boy. Those areas of my brain, along with my amygdala are a little on the weighted side. I wish I had a slightly more active Amygdala if you know what I mean…

My Basal Ganglia… now that's my MO.

"It's past 7:00." Stan's right elbow nudges my left one rested on the table. I can tell he's ready to leave, or at least order his food so he can work on trying to leave.

"It's 7:02, calm yourself Stanman." Kenny slides over to face us both. Kenny calls Stan 'Stanman' when he wants me to know he doesn't like the way he's talking to me. Kenny may or may not care about my complex emotional thought processes, but he still gets the gist of them. Stan mean, me sad.

"Why do you care if these fucks come anyways? Well I mean, I like Token and Clyde and Tweek." For someone who hates when I'm on the phone so much, his own nose has been illuminated nicely by his 5" 1080p HD screen since we've even reached the seats of Kenny's s10.

"So you think Craig is a Fuck?" I ask, rhetorically of course, maybe I'm not even asking, maybe I'm affirming.

"Happy birthday!" I hear as a set of shots are set in front of me from behind my chair.

I look up and see Clyde carrying another two in his hand, along with Token and Tweek with their own two.

I finally see Craig walk with four shot glasses in hand. "Happy Birthday Kyle, here Stan, Kenny, take a shot." Craig slides the other two seated a small 2oz. shot glass, shoving the 4oz. glass in front of me, it's partner remaining in his own hand.

I'd love to see the slightly surprised, slightly irritated look on Stan's face, but all I can see is Craig, well and the 12 shot glasses now on the table. But mostly, I use my cornea to blur out the little glasses in front of me as Craig and friends walk around to the part of the table facing me.

I see Craig's stagnant gaze flick from Kenny (giving a small twitch of a wink) to my own, (I get an actual upturn on the right side of his lips) then to Stan.

His eyes don't flicker with anger, or even with distaste. He just gives Stan a blink then raises his glass.

"Happy Birthday Kyle, from Token, Clyde, Tweek, and a Fuck!"

I hear clinks mixed with "Cheers!" and I swear I can hear a "kanpai!"

What I did not hear was the voice of Stan Marsh.


	10. Chapter 10

3.

A measly 3 drinks of alcohol is all it takes to leave a toxic affect on ones liver. By drinks I mean not no little shots, I'm talking beers. I'm talking more than 2 oz. glasses. Did you know that anything over 12 oz. is considered larger than needed? For a growing young male studies suggest eight, 8-oz's of water a day is preferred. 8x8 is 64. 64/12 is 5.33333333. Three is the largest number that's written with as many lines as the number represents. Does that make sense? Think about it. Baby curve, then mommy curve, then daddy curve on the bottom. 3. Isn't that weird how we always think about the largest of a group as the "father figure"? My mom is larger than my dad, does that mean she would be the bottom curve? I know plenty of couples that are woman-heavy. Take Stan and Wendy for instance. Oops.

"Why are you giggling?" I suddenly hear in my ear. I've somewhat forgotten where I was for a second. What was I talking about? That's right, the liver. Hepar.

I saw Craig's right eyebrow raise. Out of the 83% of Americans that can raise one eyebrow at a time, more than half (that's more than 50%) can only raise their left.

"Ah, I should have known the answer. More giggling." Craig drops his brow and pulls the chair out where Stan once sat.

Where did Stan go?

"Don't worry, your boyfriend just went to the bar to say hello to some large-armed guys." I must have looked worried, but alcohol numbs the senses, so to make sure I felt my face, just to make sure I looked concerned.

Concerned facial expressions are somewhat uncomfortable.

Maybe my face is uncomfortable feeling because of what Craig just said.

Wait, what did he say?

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"There he is, I knew you had a voice somewhere in that body of yours." Craig leaned his chair back as he clamped a hand on my shoulder. "How was the shot?"

"Which one?" I've had about 4, maybe 5? I have to think about who what when and where.

"You tell me." Craig seems antsy. I don't think I've ever known Craig to be antsy. Maybe I've never really known Craig, but antsy is not a word I would associate with him.

"Let's see." He does this to me every time we talk, play, text, anything. He get's my gears going.

Gears in my mind. Not like those cartoon-esque gears where there are only three, (a baby mommy, and daddy. I'll let you decide which one is the biggest) gears. I've got to have at least 20 in my brain. Maybe I gain a gear every year I turn older. The only question is do we start out with a gear when we're born? Or do we have to take that first year to grow that first gear? In America, when we are born our age is 0, we put in our time to gain that 1 years. In Korea, they come out the gate with their first. What the hell, I'll give myself an extra gear by Korean standards, 23 gears it is.

"K-kyle! Smell my arm, tell me what it smells like." Tweek shoves his left arm into my nose. He's holding Clyde's shirt by the sleeve, his knuckles almost white. Clyde is facing me with this shit-eating grin on his face. He's rolling up his other sleeve with what little range Tweek is giving his other arm.

I turned to find Craig missing. What were we talking about?

"Dude, he's not gonna answer. We knocked out his sense. Sense! Get it!" Clyde cackled at his little joke. "Why you just sitting there dude? Get that alcohol flowing throughout that body of yours."

As I stare at the two in front of me all I can try to think about is what Craig was asking me a conversation before. My brain has been my best friend for a while and seems to get a little needy.

I stand. Smart idea Clyde, dispersing the alcohol will hopefully work out the inebriation quicker.

"He stands. Now smell my arm." Tweek tries again. Wake up nose.

I know he's expecting me to say something similar to what I told him in the coffee shop the other day, but my short-term memory is dimming.

"Dirt?" I try.

I've never seen a person's eyes actually bug out. I'm talking lose the lids full on eyeball. Good thing for optic nerves.

"See? I told you, dirt! He thinks I smell like dirt!" Tweek's voice steadily rises into hysteria. I'm not sure if I should feel offended or wise. Offended because he's laughing at me, wise because he asked for my olfactory opinion.

"Do me next, do me." Clyde shoves his shaven arms towards my nose. I have to lean my head back to prevent a slight nose bump. The two seem genuinely excited to hear what I have to say so I give it a go.

"You smell like cucumbers." I couldn't believe what I smell, but I have to go with my gut. Clyde the cucumber.

"How the fuck did you know!?" Clyde sits down where Craig once sat. I notice that the whole table is empty and I take a quick survey of the room to find out where my guests are. "I've been using Bebe's shampoo."

"He only showers there." Craig joins the group. He smells like wind and smoke. Windy smoke? Smokey wind?

Before Clyde rebuttals Tweek's geeking out and pulling Clyde towards Token and Kenny sitting at the bar playing a pachinko machine. What restaurant has a pachinko machine in the bar area?

"Have you thought about that shot?"

Craig is donned in extremely casual clothing. Jeans, shirt with a pocket. Front pocket though. Very… older than 90's. I think he is wearing loafers. That must be his outfit starter. Maybe that's what Kenny and Craig have in common.

Something tells me Craig is trying to pick my brain. He knows I'm drunk, and I feel like he wants to get the better of me.

Maybe he wants to see me do my best.

Barf.

Why do I think these things?

"Patron, sex with an alligator, Washington apple, Georgia peach, Hollywood Suicide, and another patron. With a lime the second time." I knew my brain would come in handy one of these days. My short, short term memory never fails me.

Craig is now sitting across from me and for some reason I feel more intimate than when he was sitting next to me, with his hand on my shoulder. He leans in and I get another gush of that smoky wind.

"Nice try."

Nice try? Did he really just say that? The two words that began our bond, began this constancy in my fantastical part of my brain? I've thought and dreamt and wondered and pondered, and it began with those two words.

"Nice try?" All of the sudden another drink sounds good to me.

Craig takes a napkin and spreads it out thin on the table. He pulls a pen from his front shirt pocket and I catch a glimpse of the chip in his armor. Well the armor I portray the knight of my dreams to have. Cigarettes.

He notices my stare and pushes his soft pack farther into his pocket. "We'll talk about that later."

I get chills knowing he wants to talk to me later.

I watch as his middle and index finger make small, tiny movements. He always struck me as a writer that incorporates his ring finger into his craft. I guess it only takes two thumbs to type on a phone. Phone.

"Let me see your phone." The smile on my face is senseless. My brain has not approved of this idea, but my heart makes an executive decision. Or maybe it's my penis.

God, I just said penis.

My smile spreads.

Craig comes back with blank eyes and returns back to his napkin.

I realize there are rolled up silverware set-ups laid across the long table along with chips and salsa. Have we eaten? Did we order?

"Craig! Come take this with us!" Token yells as the bartender fills five little shot glasses like I fill up my ice cube tray at home.

Craig's blank stare move to the boys at the bar then to me, then to my napkin. He slides it over and leans into my ear. His breath is hot and makes my cochlea's tiny hairs stand attention.

"I'll be back, don't make a move without me." My eyes are focused on the table as I see the napkin slide into my view.

There are five little underlines, set up hangman style. _. Noose drawn and all.

My heart jumps at the though of playing a word game with Craig.

It has to be him. He has to know it's me.

Why else would he start a word game with me? Less than 30% of the American population prefer word games over action, role-playing, or any other genre of game.

Why a five letter word? What significance could Craig hold with me that's explainable all in a five letter word?

I look up and try to catch Craig's lazy eyes. I don't mean he has two lazy eyes, his eyes just always look…bored. Not tired, not upset, just bored.

"You guys look cute together." Stan takes Craig's place across the table from me. "Are you sober now? I'd like to eat and get this horrible night with this horrible company over with."

Stan gets mean when he gets drunk.

I'm going to go ahead and blame the alcohol for my emotional flush. I can feel my ears get hot. Not the warm hot I got from Craig's breath, more like a fiery furnace that reminds me of the type of fire pits you'd find in a hot hell. A hell full of raging emotions and feelings rather than my image of a cold pit of hell. Funny how opposites can share the same vision.

My eyes water and I hang my head low, knowing that Stan will rant on a little more, but he'll dip his head low so I can hear him loud and clear and everyone else can not.

"Listen, I've thought and I think I know how I feel." Stan's voice drips with distaste. "You can be a fag all you want, but just not with him okay."

He grasps my chin and lifts my head to meet him in the eyes. "Anyone but him."

"W-who?" The hole has been dug, I might as well make it deep enough for me to lie in it.

"Me." I feel Stan's hand leave my face as Craig sits right next to Stan.

Stan tries to stand, but is lightly and slightly held down by Craig.

"Don't fucking touch me man." Stan shrugs his shoulder, trying to shake Craig's hand.

"I'm just a little worried, Marsh. You look a little sick." Craig's blank stare in effect.

"Can't handle your alcohol?" Craig leans in and I see it.

I see a smile on his face. Remember that thought? That thought about opposites with the same vision?

What the fuck did I mean, you ask?

Craig's smile makes me want to sit all day and write poetry, like Blake or Coleridge, Baillie, even.

Craig's smile now makes me want to eat maggots whole, have them mate inside my stomach, hatch, and eat through my stomach lining until they reach my vital organs, all while staying alive.

Think Prometheus, post robbery of Zeus.

"Listen you fa—"

Craig's fist meets Stan's stomach and I could hear the eruption begin in Stan's stomach. Craig must have thought about his angle and force of the punch enough to cause Stan's head to bend down far enough for his vomit to propel his jaw low enough to aim his vomit onto his own shirt and shoes rather than mine across from him.

The punch was quick and stiff. Everyone looking around is appalled. I'm nervous we will be kicked out and banned for life. When the guys run up for an explanation all I hear Craig say is, "Woah Marsh, drank a little much huh?"

Stan is standing, hands and shirt covered in puke. I notice than no one thinks a fight is about to break out. No one thinks a punch was the cause of the spew. Craig speaks a little lower, much like Stan did to me earlier, "It's okay, I'm not some queasy fag, I've got a strong stomach."

"Now you," Craig pulls a napkin off of the table, "you're gonna have to work on controlling your alcohol intake a little better, huh big guy?"


	11. Chapter 11

27%.

27% of drinkers are resistant to hangovers. That means the other 73% of drinkers have to put up with the symptoms that over-drinking brings. Up until this morning, I had no idea that the symptoms of a hangover are so vast. I've taken care of Kenny and Stan many days after a big party, but I myself have never needed a nurse. From what I gathered, dehydration and headaches (which is caused by the dehydration) were the only two symptoms of a hangover. Out of the 10 symptoms, I think it's safe to say I am experiencing the majority of them. I just hope irregular heart beat and gastrointestinal problems aren't on my list.

First thing I did when I woke this morning was reach for a bottle of water. This is where I experienced physical symptom number two, dizziness. Even the slightest motion of lifting my head caused my brain to throb. My brain feels heavier than it has ever been. As if there's slack between my brain and my skull. It gives that forceful crack to tighten the slack of whatever could be connecting the two. Literally, it would be my meninges and cerebrospinal fluid that connects the two, so the slack of a cord is a bad analogy. My brain aches too much to think of a fitting analogy how my brain feels. It just feels rotten, alright? Along with the physical pain, my brain is going through some mental stress due to overdrinking.

It makes sense that there are not only physical, but mental symptoms of a hangover. Mood swings, mostly depression or regret, are the biggest common mental symptom. Who can blame the brain for releasing that certain chemical after a night of being treated like shit? Think about it, 'Oh hey, brain, you're my voice of reason. Tonight, I'm going to drink this substance that completely numbs you and even if you try to tell me I'm doing something I shouldn't, I won't listen.'

Last night. Goodness.

I don't blame my brain for backing out early either. He had enough. After Craig punched Stan and puke went flying, my brain shut off. Must be what they call 'blacking-out.'

Craig.

Stan.

What causes my brain even more pain is the game of catch-up that it's trying to play. Like an animal trying to walk off a tranquilizer. I can remember taking shots, giggling, and then the napkin.

What happened to that napkin?

What happened to everyone?

My eyes are itchy and swollen. I had to have cried at least once last night, but I'm not sure why. How did I end up in my room? Beaker Sheets with white pillowcases; this is my bed.

After chugging my bottle of water, which tastes good even warm, I have to burrow my head under my pillow.

People who sleep with their heads buried under their pillow—no, just fuck it.

What happened last night?

My pillow cave gives my brain time to think. It's either see light or have a train of thought right now. Stan puked and Craig smoked a cigarette. I remember sitting outside on a ledge crying to someone who kept trying to get me to drink water.

I can remember someone trying to wrestle my phone from my hands and someone being very insulted I called them Stan.

Cell phones are both a blessing and a curse. Perfect devices to pull information from. Looking at pictures of last night, texts, voicemails?

'You okay, Gus? Had me scared shitless for a sec.'

'Hey Kyle, I stole your number, hope everything is okay. –Tweek.'

'Water is your friend, dude!'

'Thanks for having us out for your birthday. Hope things between you and Stan are okay.'

My eyes scan messages from numbers I've never seen before until I see a familiar name and a lengthy message:

'You're gonna let him take you home when you came with me? What is this, some sort of fucking joke? He punched me and all you did was cry. After all these years you're gonna throw this away like that? I don't understand why you even invited him and his friends. Since when have you had any friends other than Kenny?'

I deleted the message before I could get to the end. I've never had a boyfriend before, but I can only imagine that Stan's text is based off of break-up texts he's sent millions of girls before. Just modified. And don't tell Wendy. For someone who doesn't want their super best friend to be gay he sure acts well, gay.

It's the second text message from Stan that caused my heart to drop.

'Don't worry, your man came and picked up his actual boyfriend from the bar. I made sure to tell him you weren't interested in him like that. I think he got the hint.'

I can pretty much figure out which number is whose, but the one person I wanted to hear from I didn't. Craig took me home? He knows where I live? Did he undress me!? He really didn't believe Stan and whatever he said to him, did he? Did he really go back to the bar? Is Tweek really his boyfriend? Did I really call him Stan?

Classes are the farthest thing from my mind and to be honest, what's the point of going to class if you aren't going to retain any information? I'm sure I've missed my first class anyway.

I open my Letters with People app and see no new moves have been made neither messages sent.

I know I have to make things right. Between Stan, I'm not so sure. I have to at least thank Craig for taking me home. And maybe apologize. For everything.

If I were Craig Tucker on a Tuesday morning where would I be? I have three choices: His apartment, Howie's Diner, or school.

Maybe I'll have to think about where Craig will be on a Tuesday afternoon. The average amount of time for a hangover to go away is anywhere from a half-day to a full one. Believe me, though, after another 4 hours of hydration, well balanced meals and a hot shower:

The hunt for Craig Tucker begins.


	12. Chapter 12

61 rooms.

There are 61 rooms in the art building at Craig's university. The first floor has five dance rooms and one large performance room. The second and third floors house 20 composition rooms each, the fourth floor has two drafting rooms, three dark rooms, and a large kitchen dinning room. The basement has the only three classrooms the building has, and the rest of the rooms are used for staff offices.

Well, according to the campus blueprint found on their website. It's good to mentally be prepared for change, but have a slight understanding of what you're walking into, right? There's bound to be some changes, I'm thinking maybe an addition for more classrooms? More composition rooms? Something had to have changed since the blueprints, they're dated back in the 80's. Building codes are updated as needed in Colorado, but building inspections are conducted every 3 years. That means the art building, constructed in 1977, has been through at least 10 inspections. You mean to tell me they've passed every time without change? Pish posh...

It's about mid afternoon, 3:00pm. While this is most definitely the most foreign ground to me, I know this is the best case scenario in finding Craig. More than 70% of students try to schedule their classes before 4:00pm. Not only does the timing work out well, but the other two options are a little more in Craig's court than a general area. If I happen to run into him here someone might notice this poor little red head getting the shit beat out of him.

Walking up to the art building I'm a little nervous to even enter the building. Craig is in architectural design so my best guess is finding him on the fourth floor. Composition rooms are a little less roomy for one to draft large scale designs.

Granted, I've never stepped foot into my own campus' art school, but the outside is appealing. It's got these nice smooth lines and edge-less windows that make you think the building goes on for miles. Like it's a part of the sky. Pristine. Beautiful. Clean.

Once inside I realize the first floor matches the blueprint exactly. A sign points to the stairs on the right, the elevator is straight ahead. For someone that is a bathmophobic and afraid of elevators, I'm in a real pickle. What's the term for someone afraid elevators you ask? No official term. Instead, they blame claustrophobia or even agoraphobia. Poor guys.

I opt for the elevator. It's only four floors, not much time for a cord to break and not that long of a fall should said cord break.

There's one single elevator. Unsurprisingly, there aren't that many people waiting for the ride. I timed my entrance for a time that most students should either be in class or are too late to worry about me. I'm hoping I don't stick out like a sore thumb, but for some reason, I can't help feeling like I scream a mixture of 'I have no artistic talent whatsoever' and 'did you know a rainbow is an optical and meteorological phenomenon that is caused by reflect, refraction, and dispersion of light in water droplets resulting in a spectrum of light appearing in the sky'. Nerd.

The elevator doors open and after a brief inspection of the moving room, I step inside and press the '4' button. I'm told that if you close your eyes or look up, your body is supposed to equal out the movement of the elevator, giving you less of a chance to have vertigo, which I'm not sure you can get moving up four floors. I have my eyes closed, but I can still feel the lack of enclosure. Peeking with one eye, the elevator hasn't moved. The 4 is light up, it acknowledges my request, but the doors remain open.

I try the 'Close Door' button, but that does nothing. The 'Emergency' button is a little daunting, not to mention attention grabbing, so that's pushed to the back of the line as a last resort option. How silly do I look right now waiting inside an open elevator? There's no way I'm jumping in this thing. If I push the emergency button do the doors close? Is an alarm set?

"Kyle? Is that you?"

Tweek looks a little afraid to step into the elevator. My guess is that I look less silly and more suspicious. Tweek Tweak is one of the last people I'd like to run into at this moment. There's the worry text I got from him, the fact that he's Craig's closest friend, he was a present participant of last night.

"Oh, hey Tweek, how are you?"

Tweek steps into the elevator and notices the 4 is lit. He doesn't make a move to change anything, and for a second I'm wondering if I should just leave.

"I'm good, how about you, you were kind of freaking out last night." I wince at that, but try to swallow down my embarrassment.

"Good, I'm good, too. Just had to sleep it off and well, gather myself."

Tweek seems to take the answer kindly. I notice he has a camera around his neck and a camera bag around his arm.

"Photography?"

"What? Oh, yeah. I'm on my way to the dark room."

"That's cool, I didn't know you were into photography. Is that your major?"

"No, just a hobby I guess...are you on your way up?"

"Um, yeah, I was hoping, but the elevator doesn't seem to want to go, heh."

Tweek is still giving me an odd look, but he's polite. He pulls what looks like an elevator card from his hip and gives waves it in front of elevator pad. The elevator beeps and the doors close.

"Thank you."

The blonde smiles and we ride in silence.

I know he's waiting for an explanation of last night, he was nice enough to check in on me this morning. I wish I could give him a proper explanation, but how am I supposed to explain something I don't remember?

"So uh... why are you here?" Tweek's face twists a little and I can tell he feels bad for asking such a blunt question. Understood, though. I mean, why would I be here?

I clear my throat, trying to make headway for a non-creepy response. "I'm looking for Craig. I'd like to apologize for-"

"You want to apologize to Craig? What about Stan?"

Tweek doesn't sound angry, just genuinely surprised.

"Excuse me?" I'm not following.

Dogs tilt their heads to the side to get a better understanding of what's told to them. People think this is cute and often will try to induce more tilting once they see the slight turn of the head. Tweek seems to have taken a page out of their book. Cuteness in tact.

I wait for his explanation when all I'm getting is a head tilt.

"I'm not following, Tweek."

"Me either, I guess."

"I don't remember much from last night, blame the alcohol or maybe just a mental block for protection at this point, but I do remember Stan being an extreme jerk and me calling Craig Stan and feeling extremely bad."

The elevator stops and the doors open. Tweek pushes and holds the 'Door Open' button, "I don't know I felt kind of bad for Stan."

"Bad? For Stan? For being a huge jerk to all of you?"

He shrugs, "wasn't so mean to me. He just seemed kind of jealous."

Jealous? "Of?"

"I don't know. Just kept on watching you talking and having a good time, you didn't pay much attention to him."

I'm trying to give Tweek the benefit of the doubt here, but I'm getting a little angry and feeling a little cornered. Both physically and mentally. Why are we not getting off the elevator?

"It's not my place to say, I don't know how you and Stan are these days, but he just looked sad that's all." Tweek steps off the elevator. Before I can follow he blocks my way and reaches back in to hit the 1 button, swiping his card along the way.

"Craig isn't here today, he's working."

"Wait!" I do something I normally would never do. I stick my arm in between the closing elevator doors. "I know you don't have time for the long story, but things haven't necessarily been great between Stan and I. And I can assure you he's not sad or jealous, he's just a jerk."

"I think he just misses his friend."

With that, I give up. It's hard trying to talk between an elevator. I take a step back and mutter a thanks and let the door close between us.

Tweek waves and takes waits for the doors to move.

"Maybe he's just stubborn." He says at the last minute. He snaps a picture of me and the closing doors and I ride the elevator down feeling even worse than I did when I woke up this morning.


	13. Chapter 13

43 Percent.

Only 43 percent of Americans have tried to repair a broken relationship at least once in their life. This includes relationship between families and lovers, not just friendships. It sounds low, doesn't it? But think about it, how often does one think, 'hey, I want to make things better with So-and-so, let me go to his house,' only to find So-and-so on their way to one's house to do the exact same? Never. Only in movies... those Little Rascals (no, really, this is a scene that happens in the movie The Little Rascals.)

It takes at least one person in said broken relationship to make the effort. So if every relationship had at least one party make the effort it, wouldn't it be 50/50? Only in a perfect world I guess.

Out of the 43 percent,though, only 13 percent of these relationships come out repaired. The rest, permanently damaged.

I'm thinking we'll fall into the 30 percent with permanent damage, but it's better than being in the 57 percent that never bothered to try, right?

After the meeting with Tweek I headed home, not bothering with Howie's. I thought about texting the last number I had for Kenny, then I thought about texting Tweek, assuming he took his phone into the dark room with him. I decided against both and turned left when I should have turned right to my apartment. This is something I had to work out on my own. Well, and with Stan.

"It's open," I hear Stan through his door. His apartment wasn't too far away from mine. Five miles at most, but driving it takes closer to 15 minutes.

I read an article that only 7 percent of people in the world leave their doors unlocked, which I find hard to believe. So one night, I walked the floor of my apartment and conducted my own study. I didn't walk into their apartments, but if I did and got caught doing so, I'd be clean. No, I wasn't breaking and entering, no I wasn't trespassing. The door is unlocked. Just like Stan's expression, their door is, in a sense, open. Most people that walk into a house or apartment uninvited aren't charged unless their under the influence. Most people that walk into a house or apartment uninvited better hope they're under the influence and not just stupid. All it takes is a twist of a knob to judge it's status. Just as I thought, out of the 20 apartments on the floor almost all were unlocked. 17. So myself and two others would be safe if a mass robbery were to take place. And don't try to throw in factors like the chain lock or dead bolt. We don't have dead bolts and all it takes is a pair of chain cutters to bust through a chain. Duh. Chain, cutters. They cut chains.

I should have probably called or sent a message, but it's a little late now. I'm going to need all the mind power I can manage. Conversations(confrontations) like this usually leave people absent minded, numbed from their true feelings. They end up not saying what they want because the thought of confrontation alone is that big of a mind block.

Replaying the events that have led up to this only cement my thought that this friendship is on it's way to the relationship junkyard. The 30 percent. My confusion brought on by Tweek is replaced by anger. Tweek, feeling sorry for Stan? He only saw a blip of our relationship and he thinks he can judge off of that one moment? Now's your chance, Kyle. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Tell Stan how you feel, about everything. Lord knows Stan has no problem telling you. I should have composed a list of points, arguments, and counter arguments for this. There's that spontaneity again. I have just enough time to get my introduction and starting point together before Stan opens the door on his own.

I open the door and Stan's there, sitting on his couch, playing video games in his pajamas. It makes me think of when we were little. We'd stay up all night playing a game over and over. If we already beat it once, we'd take turns trying to beat the high score, or trying to find all the mini treasure hunts or hidden gems in the game. Stan glances at me and there's no anger in his eyes. Just as quickly as he casts a look my way he's back to his game.

Before I can start my introduction to my speech, my beginning point, Stan scoots over, making room for me on the couch. Eyes still glued to the TV.

I sit and for the first time in a while I feel comfortable with just Stan. He's replaced pop cans with beer cans, but they're still littering his coffee table just the same. There's a bag of bite-sized Kit-Kats open on the table and next to it an unopened bag of Almond Joys.

It seems like Stan hasn't forgotten their routine either. Kit Kats for Stan, Almond Joys for me.

"Why do you have these?" I hold up the bag of Almond Joys.

Stan shrugs, "habit. I can't buy one without the other."

I pick up the second controller and turn it on. Stan pauses the game, quits, and restarts in two-player mode. We make it through the first level before I open the bag of Almond Joys. We beat the game once before either of us speak.

"You know I still want to talk about what's been going on with us." I say, waiting for the prologue to end so we can start the game a second time.

"I know." Stan takes a Kit Kat and throws it in my bag of Almond Joys, taking one in the process.

"I'm still upset with you." I take out the Kit Kat and eat it.

Stan eats his Almond Joy and reaches for another. I block him. So what if he's the one that paid for them?

"I'm sorry." Stan finally looks me in the eye and maybe it's just because it's Stan and just because I'm hoping for the best, but I believe him.

"For everything?"

"I'm not good with change, I don't care about any of," he motions towards my crotch, which I roll my eyes at, "any of that. I care about losing my best friend. It just came out the wrong way."

"For years? Dude..."

"I'm not good at apologies, either."

"And what about the whole Craig thing?"

"I'm a little possessive of the people I love."

"You could have just said something."

"I'm not good at expressing my feelings."

"I say again, for years?"

"I'm a piece of shit, okay? Can we just order pizza or something and start the game?"

Have you ever heard of the expression 'choose your battles wisely'? The origin of the phrase is disputed, but my favorite use of the line is from C. JoyBell C.,

"Choose your battles wisely. After all, life isn't measured my how many times you stood up to fight. It's not winning battles that makes you happy, but it's how many times you turned away and chose to look into a better direction. Fight only the most, most, most important ones, let the rest go."

I dial in the pizza and order for us both. I don't bother asking Stan what he wants on his pizza, it's been the same since fourth grade.

"I still like Craig."

"And I still hate him."

"Well that's too bad."

"I know."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to consolidate everything on AO3. If anyone is reading this and enjoys it hopefully you'll see more from me!  
> Happy Holidays

15%

Only 15% of couples meet at a restaurant or bar. The majority of that percentage meet at, you guessed it, a bar. It's hard to come across someone you fancy eating at a restaurant alone.

I imagine it's even harder seeing someone working at said restaurant you fancy.

But I didn't really meet Craig at Howie's.

Let's try this again.

35%

Surprisingly, 35% of couples meet online. Either through dating sites, social media sites, or in some cases, online game play.

I count Letters with People to be online, I'm sure there's a desktop version somewhere.

But I guess I didn't technically meet Craig through Letters with People.

One more time.

9%

This small percentage is the amount of people that meet their significant other in high school. Of that 9%, only 2% end up with their 'high school sweetheart'.

Since Craig and I were the farthest thing from sweethearts in high school, this last percentage has no relevance, except that we would fall into the remaining 7%.

The chances aren't very good for us, though, are they?

Take that 7%, add the 15% and the 35% and that's 57%. The odds are now in our favor. Optimistic? Yes. Logical? No, but a guy can pray for a miracle, right?

That's what I'm doing as I walk into Howie's Diner. It's a little busier than the first time I walked in and it seems like the hostess tonight is not as thrilled to be at work, but I try not to hold that against her. She doesn't even greet me, just lifts her head, waiting for my answer to the question she never asked.

"Just one." I say, holding up my left index finger just in case she might be deaf, in which case it's totally okay for her not to ask the question verbally.

The girl pulls a menu from underneath her podium, marks on her laminated map of the restaurant and grunts her first words to me, "this way."

So she's not mute. Thinking about it, it would be hard to hire someone that's deaf to fill a hostess position. I understand there are equal opportunity laws, but I've seen girls I know for a fact have perfectly fine hearing skills listen to nothing a customer says.

"How many?" I heard a girl ask once.

"Well, there's about 8 adults and possible two kids, and we'll need a booster seat for one." The customer responded, sounding very prepared and literate. Probably used to having such a large table request.

"Do you think you can squeeze into one of our booths?"

I mean really...

But this hostess seems to lack nothing but manners. She rushes past a family taking their sweet time walking to the salad bar, leaving me to crane my neck to make sure I saw which way she went. Once I finally catch up to her she already has the menu on the table and is on her way back to her podium.

How nice.

The waitress (not Krista) takes my order and leaves me just as quickly as she came. I am prepared this time. I've placed all my pieces in their places and now all I have to do is wait.

I texted Tweek to make sure he'll be here tonight.

I ordered what I think should give myself away.

And...well... those are all the pieces I really have... I'm here aren't I? That counts as something.

"Vanilla milkshake." The waitress comes by and sets my milkshake on the table without missing a step.

Milkshakes in general are viewed in a healthy light. I agree, to an extent. The vanilla milkshake that is in front of me is no doubt better for me than a soft drink, but better than water, or a hot tea of sorts? Arguable.

Their main ingredient, milk, obviously wins in the calcium department. Usually milkshakes from restaurants though have twice as much sugar as necessary to make the drink delicious. Also, the ice cream is usually less than healthy, too. Even a restaurant boasting home-made milkshakes with home-made ice cream could raise a flag. Pair that with the extra toppings and mix-ins Howie's offers and you're basically taking ice cream and a candy bar, mixing it together with milk, and telling yourself you're drinking a healthy shake. Not the case, America, not the case.

When my plate of food comes out I can tell the waitress knows something doesn't match.

"You ordered a plain hamburger, didn't you?"

"I did."

"I don't know why they sent this out then," in her hands was a grilled chicken breast over rice and a vegetable medley on the side, "sorry about that I'll get it changed."

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

My heart is pounding as she walks back with the food. He knows. He knows I'm here. Let's just hope he doesn't hate me like I've been worrying about these past few days.

There's a ping from my phone. It's a notification letting me know that _ Cmft_ has started a game on Letters with People.

Eat

That's the word he plays. Vertically.

Nope

I play horizontally with his e.

His turn comes back just as fast.

Please

Horizontally. It's a cheap way to get double points. Using my p and shamefully accepting La and Et as words.

I don't have any letters I can keep this conversation going with, so I end the game. The Kyle that walked in here weeks ago would have been hands shaking at such a bold move. End all to end all. This is it, Kyle. Will _ Cmft_ reveal himself to an already suspecting world (just me) or will he hide and I'll never talk to Craig again?

I glance into the kitchen area and see steam and rushing bodies walk by the ordering window. Howie's is a lot busier than the first time I came in, so maybe Craig really can't come out to talk like before. Maybe he wants to, but if he does his job will be compromised? What if he takes that chance and ends up unemployed? I can't be the cause of raising the unemployment rate in Colorado! Even by a tenth of a percent!

So instead of sending Craig a text message like a normal human being, I start creating games with _ Cmft_, looking for the right combination of letters to form some sort of an apology. The chances of getting the five letters I need out of the seven they give you are probably less than marrying your high school sweetheart.

I opt for starting a game the same way Craig did moments before (the chances of getting an e, a, and t are much greater than a y to begin with).

"Eat."

Craig has beaten me. Again.

There he stands, plate of grilled chicken, rice, a vegetables in hand.

He's right where I want him. This has been the plan all along. Coax him out with a plain order and word play (hah...). This is my moment. I am in control of this. It's now or never. It's all you, Kyle. Craig is right in front of you, command him to sit so you two can talk things through.

"I'm s-sorry."

I'm not threatened. I'm not. The stutter was because... there was a draft... yeah, a gust of cold air that passed us. No emotional or mental connection at all to this situation.

Craig has the top half of his apron pulled down, his long sleeves rolled up. He sets the plate in front of me and takes a seat opposite of me. "Sorry for calling me Stan, not talking to me for two days, or not eating the food I made for you?"

How did he gain control so quickly of this conversation?

That damn stutter.

"All three?" He pushes the plate closer towards me and motions to pick up my fork, "well not so much the third option."

Craig takes my fork and knife and pulls the plate closer to him. He begins cutting the meat into some pretty even cubes. It's like he knew how many chicken cubes make up this stupid chicken breast.

Once he's finished he scoops some rice onto the fork, stabs a carrot and ends the bit with a chicken cube. I think he's about to bring it to his mouth when instead the bite is so close to my face, my eyes go crossed trying to keep up with it.

"The third option is the only option you need to be sorry about." He urges the fork towards my lips.

I back up a little, feeling suffocated by the bite, "I'm being serious, Craig."

"Me too."

"You're not at all upset about me calling you Stan? About me freaking out, and well, whatever else happened that night?"

He rests the fork on the plate, "I got called Stan a lot in high school, I get called Ruby by my grandma, my dad even calls me by my dog's name sometimes. Slip of the mind," he points to my head, careful to make sure I know it wasn't his mind that did the slipping.

"It was your party, you could freak out if you wanted to." I understand his play on words, but that still did not make me feel any less embarrassed about it. He goes on.

"You seem to forget what else happened that night, I got to punch Stan Marsh in front of a crowd and not get in trouble for it. I might have gotten a little vomit on my shoes, but it was worth it. I should be thanking you."

I can't hide my laughter.

"Overall, I'd say good party." Craig tries again for the bite of food on the fork. He picks up the fork and reinforces the chicken cube at the end.

"About not talking to you for the past few days-"

"I figured I might have come on a little too strong," Craig places the hand holding the fork under his chin thoughtfully, "but I wasn't upset about it."

"What do you mean?"

"It was obvious I was playing you in Letters with People, I was just waiting for you to make the connection. And when you showed up here after I mentioned working here I figured you were a little curious as to who you were talking to. I was worried at first you were put off to see me here, but when something, or I guess someone," he points the fork in my direction, "comes along that could change your life for the better, why not take a chance?"

As the fork Craig's holding reaches it's original spot close to my lips I realized that Craig really isn't worried about what happened two days ago. He isn't worried about what happened two years ago, or even ten years ago in grade school. He doesn't need to conduct a study on how the world feels in order to understand how he's feeling or worry about the chances of our relationship.

I don't think I'll ever give up my studies and statistics on how many people prefer the color yellow over red, but when it comes to my own emotions there's no need to draw on outside sources.

Craig is right, sometimes you just have to take the chance, or in this specific instance, the bite.

The tenderness of the chicken breast pairs nicely with the sweetness of the carrot and texture of the rice.


End file.
